Only, Just
by moirariordan
Summary: "Luck," Abby replied dryly. "I don't think people like us even know the meaning of the word."


Clarke doesn't remember when it first appeared; it must've been when she was too young to notice or care, certainly before she knew what it was. It's unusual, most people don't get theirs until they're in puberty, and the fact that Clarke's came so early was a constant, low-grade worry for her mother.

"She's always been an early bloomer," was her father's take on it. "What's the harm?"

"I just wish we knew more about the marks in general," Abby would reply, and Clarke would think, _of course you do. You want to know everything._

Clarke never minded it - she was lucky that it was on her leg, high enough that there was little risk of anyone seeing it unless she chose to show them. Some kids got them on their hands or forearms - or one poor girl, on her_ face_, a blue star right next to her eye.

Wells' mark was like that - on his neck, a white oak leaf, bright and obvious. When they were kids, he was proud of it, bragging about it and showing it off every chance he got. As they grew older, though, he started trying to hide it, with scarves and turtlenecks and high collared jackets.

"It's a private thing," he explained to her once. "Feels wrong to have it so on display."

"But isn't that how you're gonna find them?" Clarke asked. "How's anyone supposed to find their match if the marks are all hidden?"

"I'd like to think I'll find them anyway, without the marks," Wells replied, sounding kind of wistful. "Anyway, they're more for you, I think. A private thing," he concluded, "to tell you something about yourself."

Clarke wasn't (and still isn't) sure what her black crown is supposed to tell her about herself, or her soulmate, for that matter. But every time somebody calls her "princess," her breath catches, just a little.

* * *

Supposedly on Earth, before the Cataclysm, there were entire companies devoted to helping you find the person with your matching mark. Private detective agencies of a sort, where the process had become so streamlined that all you had to do was log on and submit a picture and they'd usually send you a name and phone number by the end of the business day.

There was nothing like that on the Ark, of course. Love was a luxury, everything was a luxury. It was rare for people to find their match; most didn't even care. Her parents weren't, Clarke knows. It's something she thinks about a lot, after finding out the particulars of her father's death. Would it have helped? Would she have done the same thing, if they'd been matches? Does it make that decision more or less understandable?

Clarke never really considered the idea of finding hers. Most people didn't, why should she be special? No, better to be realistic. Better to find someone to love, and think of it as a nice tattoo. A meditation exercise, something to create meaning for, just for yourself.

Finn hadn't asked to see her mark, and when he had seen it, during their night together, he didn't say anything. He didn't even really - touch that part of her thigh, actually, Clarke realizes later. He had to have seen it, there's no way he didn't. It's hard to miss.

She understands it later, when Raven shoves her wrist in her face, brandishing her mark at Clarke like an accusation. Of course he hadn't looked, Clarke thinks, he didn't need to.

It makes it so much worse. Clarke wishes Raven hadn't shown her; she finds it so much harder to like him again, now that she knows how quickly he betrayed something so precious.

* * *

She's always paid attention to them, she supposes. Because of Wells, probably - they liked to talk about them. Use them to gossip about people.

Jasper's is a thin squiggly line that cuts across the knuckles of his right hand, in bright green. Miller has an elegant red dog on his ankle. Octavia's is a beautiful, clear blue rain drop on the underside of her jaw. Jones' is on his upper arm, and Clarke's never gotten a clear look at it - just a flash of purple, sometimes, when he pushes his sleeve up to work on something. Charlotte had a grey cross on her palm that hurts to think about.

She's never seen Bellamy's. It bugs her, for a long time. It's not on his chest, or his arms or hands or neck or face. She's even glimpsed his feet a few times, when he's changing his boots, and they're bare as well. So whatever it is, wherever it is, must be on his legs somewhere - they are literally the only part of his body she's never seen.

(This should've been a clue, she realizes in retrospect. Well...you can't be early in everything.)

* * *

"I saw it," Raven tells her, one afternoon over moonshine in Clarke's tent, "do you - "

"No," Clarke says.

Raven's eyebrows lift. "You sure? You seem pretty keen to know about it."

Clarke just shakes her head. Of course she wants to know. But she wants to_ find out, _not be told. She doesn't know how to explain that to Raven.

"Whatever you say," Raven says with a shrug. "It suits him, I'll tell you that."

"That's what my dad always said about mine," Clarke replies. "I never agreed with him. I still don't think I do, actually."

Raven pulls up her sleeve and regards the red burst of flame on her pulse point. Her face is probably the most complicated thing Clarke's ever seen.

"I mean, it definitely fits," Raven says dryly. "Me, anyway. Finn, I don't know. He never seemed like he gave it much thought."

"Maybe they are just for us," Clarke says thoughtfully. "Maybe the fact that they match up with others is just a coincidence, and somebody years ago misinterpreted and now we've all just got a bunch of useless baggage about it."

Raven laughs. "Another thing to thank our ancestors for." She tips her glass at the sky, face twisted in mock gratefulness. "Thanks a lot, assholes."

Clarke smirks and joins in on the toast. There's really no point in pretending, anymore.

* * *

The grounders tattoo themselves, specifically to conceal the marks. Octavia tells Clarke this proudly, clearly approving of the idea.

"It's a weakness, see," Octavia says, eyes bright, "never mind what someone could do if they found your match and used them as leverage against you, but - it exposes you. You don't show your heart to your enemy."

_They must see enemies everywhere,_ Clarke thinks, and then shivers. Oh yeah. There _are_ enemies everywhere.

(She never thought Earth could possibly more depressing than life on the Ark. It's just one of many things she was very, incredibly wrong about.)

* * *

"It's bullshit," Bellamy says, one night. Clarke doesn't remember how they got on this topic; Raven and Finn, maybe. "It's just a picture. Some genetic malfunction. Nobody even knows what the fuck they are, let alone whether the whole match thing is real or just the law of averages."

"How did I know you'd say that," Clarke replies dryly.

"Don't tell me you believe in it."

"I don't know," Clarke tells him honestly. "I think it's a nice thing to hope for."

Bellamy makes a disgusted face.

"And we're a little short on things to hope for lately, if you hadn't noticed," Clarke continues.

"I guess," Bellamy says. "You'd think there'd be better things to pick. Something more attainable, like, I don't know - regular food. Beds that aren't made out of old parachutes stuffed with grass."

"Well, those things they can work for," Clarke tells him. "A soul mate, you have to be given. Like magic - that's the difference." She takes a sip of moonshine and regards him, thoughtfully, over the lip of the flask. "I suppose you don't believe in magic, either."

"Like _you_ do? You're so full of shit," Bellamy says, and laughs. Clarke laughs along with him.

"Gave it a shot," she says, and shrugs, eyes lingering on his knees. His pants are starting to rip, she can just barely glimpse his skin through the tear. It's bare, of course, the little bit of it she can see. Not that she's...looking, or anything.

Anyway.

* * *

She sees it eventually. Of course.

He gets stabbed in the thigh and he's losing blood quickly enough for her to be worried, so she doesn't even process it until after, once he's doped up on Lincoln's anesthetic herbs and his leg wrapped in the cleanest bandage she could find.

"It fucked up his crown," Octavia murmurs dully, leaning against Clarke, obviously exhausted. They're sitting sentry at the foot of his bed, out of some silent, shared pact not to let him wake up alone. "He'll be bummed about that. He's always liked it."

Clarke could swear she actually feels her heart stop. She'd seen it when she was treating his wound of course, but she hadn't - she wasn't paying attention to - "you can still tell what it is." She blinks at his sleeping form, his hands, laying still on the cot. "He likes it?"

Octavia shrugs. "Used to say it meant he was the boss of me. The boss of everybody." She rolls her eyes. "He always said he was just joking, but - well, you know. He really _wasn't, _not really."

Clarke's having trouble breathing. Octavia leans away and frowns at her, worried.

"Clarke, what - "

"I have to go," Clarke says, and stands up. "There's - I need to check - I'll be back."

She doesn't wait to hear Octavia's reply, or look back to see the alarm on her face, she just goes.

(It's not like she didn't suspect, but she wasn't sure. Besides, it's always a shock, even when you expect it. Maybe especially then. She's wrong about so many things, so often, being right is kind of a surprise.)

* * *

(She doesn't tell him right way. How could she? It doesn't matter if he doesn't believe in it.

Besides, she doesn't believe in it, either. She's pretty sure.)

* * *

"What do you think mine means?" Clarke asked Wells once.

"That you're a leader," Wells said, like it was obvious. Maybe it was to him, but Clarke's never been that sure, not until recently.

"They admire you," her mother had said, not quite meeting Clarke's eyes, standing at the gates as they said their goodbyes. "They respect you, they follow you. I knew they would."

There are many things Clarke has faith in regarding her mother; the fact that she's proud of Clarke was always one of them. The problem, as always, is whether or not that's something_ Clarke _is proud of.

"They follow Bellamy," Clarke told her, needing to explain it somehow, to try and make her understand. "They respect me, but they follow him. That's how it works."

Once upon a time, Clarke would've said she understood Abby better than anyone. They didn't always get along, but they were mother and daughter, and there was a level of intimacy in that that nobody could rival. But as she stood there, looking at her mother against the backdrop of a setting sun, Clarke thought,_ I don't know what you're thinking. I don't know you at all. _

"I'm glad you have that," Abby said. "I'm glad you've found something that works."

"Me too," Clarke said. She could just barely see the viper that curled around Abby's wrist, half hidden by her sleeve and the dim light of dusk. "I'm not sure how it happened, honestly, but it does work. We're lucky."

"Luck," Abby replied dryly. "I don't think people like us even know the meaning of the word."

* * *

(Sometimes she thinks she doesn't have to tell him, like every once in awhile, the way he looks at her, it seems -

No, he'd say something. Right? He's not the type to keep quiet.

Like, neither is Clarke. But she keeps on surprising herself, down here. Might as well add this to the list, too.)

* * *

Years from now, it'll turn into an inside joke. Bellamy will touch that spot on her leg every chance he gets, until it gets to be an obsessive sort of fixation, a possessive kind of thing that should drive her crazy, but in reality is just kind of a mild turn on. He'll take her clothes off slowly and leave her pants for last, so he can pull them down and reveal it little bit little, framing it with his hands and tracing the lines of it with his mouth. She'll look down when they're lying in bed and see the two symbols side by side, his slightly bigger, distorted by his scar, pressed up against hers, smaller but with bolder lines, in a darker shade of black.

He'll continue to call her princess; Clarke will continue to pretend she doesn't like it. Every time he does it, she'll touch her thigh instinctively and he'll smile like that was his intention all along, just to remind her, to make her shiver a little bit. Always poking her, just to see her reaction.

They'll never quite believe in it; Bellamy will maintain until his dying day that had they never come to Earth, if the Ark hadn't failed and they'd continued to live on it peacefully, that they never would've met, and if they had, probably would've hated each other. ("We hated each other at first down here, too," Clarke will remind him, and he'll shrug and say, "yeah, but on the Ark you would've had better options," which is one of those things he says all the time like he's joking, but Clarke knows he really means it and it makes her heart ache.)

Maybe in some other universe he's right, but Clarke would like to believe he isn't, that there_ is_ something special about it that connects them. Maybe it doesn't mean they're soulmates, exactly, because she's not so pessimistic about humanity that she thinks they're so limited in their capability to adapt and survive and find beauty and love and success under any circumstance. But it doesn't mean it's still not precious, that she doesn't treasure it. She does. It's a little bit of magic, in a world full of mud and death.

And they'll get there eventually; Clarke has faith in that. For now, she's content to keep it a secret, just one more detail to keep close. Wells' oak leaf, and Raven's flame, Octavia's rain drop, her and Bellamy's crowns. They're all magic, in their own ways. Tiny, pleasant mysteries that give them all something to hope for. What's the harm?

(She thinks her father would be proud. Of this, if nothing else. It's a nice thought to keep close.)


End file.
